


A (Space) Mother's Work is Never Done

by BajillionKittens



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Coran (Voltron)-centric, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-10-30 15:58:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10880142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BajillionKittens/pseuds/BajillionKittens
Summary: Six times Coran took care of his kids and one time they returned the favor.





	1. Someone to do the cleaning.

All the other paladins had a "thing." Both on and off the battlefield. Or so Coran had been told quintant after quintant. While Coran was well aware of _all_ his paladins' various talents and hobbies, it seemed that not all his paladins—one very verbal, very self-conscious paladin in particular—were aware of the same.

When the rare opportunity for free time presented itself, Coran watched as one by one his paladins sought out their "thing." Hunk made his way to the food preparation area to do more of his "stress baking"—whatever that was, Coran enjoyed the end results. Pidge wandered off to the latest of her workshops—she was up to eleven of them by now—for a programming and tinkering session. Keith, just as predictable as the others if not more so, headed for the training deck where Coran would find him hours later looking thoroughly exhausted but for some reason quite happy about it—paladins were so strange sometimes. Shiro disappeared into the quiet and solitude of the Black Lion's hangar—unbeknownst to his fellow paladins—emerging only when called to action once more. Even Allura had her own activities she pursued in private, away from the rest of the castle crew. This would of course leave Lance, his beloved blue paladin, to look about, shifting his weight from foot to foot, in search of guidance—in search of his "thing."

"You know," Coran began, breaking the silence of the recently emptied common area as he again bore witness to Lance's dilemma, "according to my calculations, today is bathroom day on the castle cleaning rotation. We've two hundred and forty seven of them on board, all in need of a thorough scrubbing." Lance stared at him, blue eyes an odd mix of both glee and dread. "If you're not otherwise occupied…" Coran offered.

With a long, overwrought, much put-upon, very dramatic sigh that Coran had heard multiple times before, Lance turned toward him with his hands thrust deep into his pockets and head flung back. A small grin tugged are Coran's face, partially camouflaged under his mustache, while he watched Lance nearly drag himself down the hall to the supply chamber. "Why do I always get stuck with cleaning duty…" Lance muttered. Always stuck with cleaning duty, indeed. Rather than simply following along after him, Lance knew the routine so well by now that he was taking the lead. 

Within ten tics, they had grabbed their supplies, laid out their plan of attack, and conquered the first bathroom on their current level. Coran liked to think they made a good team—like a pair of Yelmors with their ears interlocked. He also liked to tell himself that the constant physical activity paired with his stories of days long ago would help distract Lance from his recent obsessive line of thinking, but in this regard, quintant after quintant, Coran was proven wrong. They had only made it to bathroom number five before Lance's thoughts began to again lead him down a familiar path. 

"But like, Keith's _always_ training. And I guess I could stand to spend some more time with my bayard, but it's just not something I think about doing—not until he's doing it, at least." The final task on any cleaning detail was the floor. By now, it was Lance's specialty, his finishing touch. Lance's grip on the Altean equivalent of a sponge mop was white knuckled, his motions quick, forceful, and erratic. "I guess it's not really _my_ 'thing' if I have to be reminded to do it, right? But who'd want to have the same 'thing' as that mullet-head anyway—"

"Lance," Coran interrupted, "do you believe I enjoy scrubbing the cryopods?"

It was as though Lance's brain had encountered an error and needed to reboot itself. He paused in his scrubbing mid-stroke, his face going blank. After a tic, he blinked himself back to thought, tilting his head in consideration, brows turning up as his mouth turned down. When Lance looked back up at Coran, it was with a strained, hopeful smile. "Yyyeee…?" The word simply wouldn't form in his mouth.

"Of course I don't," Coran said. He collected the last of their supplies, casually tossing them into their container, ready to move on to their next task. "Do _you_ enjoy scrubbing the cryopods?"

"Well… no." Lance added quietly, "Especially not since that one tried to eat me."

"Precisely!"

Drumming his fingers on the mop handle, Lance eyed his gleaming floor. "I guess toilets are better…"

"Yes—what? No." Coran shook his head. "No, no, no. I perform my cleaning duties because they need to be done. You assist me in my cleaning duties because that is your 'thing,' as you call it."

One of Lance's thin eyebrows hitched. "My 'thing' is cleaning?" he deadpanned.

"Your 'thing' is being around others," Coran explained. "Sharing your time with them. You have activities you prefer, yes, but the enjoyment you get from them is nothing compared to the enjoyment you get from being in the company of those you care about. Admit it, paladin, you enjoy my company so much you're willing to scrub cryopods with me." 

Realization grew across Lance's face, parting his lips and widening his eyes. He straightened his posture and loosened his grip on the space-mop. He looked more at ease—more like himself.

"Between you and me," Coran continued, "the others might also enjoy your company from time to time if you wished to join them. Even 'that mullet-head' might appreciate having a live body to trade blows with once in a while."

With realization also came a certain amount of fear and therefore hesitation. Lance's weight shifted from one foot to the other. He wrung his hands lightly against the smooth handle in his grip. "I don't want to butt in though…"

Coran wasn't sure what Lance's butt had to do with any of this or what he intended to put it in—paladins were so strange sometimes—but he could see the very beginnings of understanding and acceptance start to blossom in his paladin and he would not lose them to doubt. "It wouldn't hurt to ask," Coran offered warmly, putting a gloved hand on Lance's shoulder to give it firm squeeze. "And no matter what happens, you are always welcome on my cleaning crew."

Lance smiled at him, half from amusement and half from appreciation. "Thanks, Coran." 

Coran gave his shoulder a firm pat. "For right now, though, two hundred forty two to go?"

"Bring 'em on!" Lance crowed, hefting his mop against his shoulder to lead the way down the corridor to bathroom number six. A few tics later, he asked quietly, "Do you think Hunk could use a taste-tester?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hat tip to ptw30's "[the Voltron Intervention](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10646208)" (which is some great, great Shallura fluff with some side Klance fluff and some all around general fluff) for the number of bathrooms in the castle. ;)


	2. Someone to do the cooking.

"It's nothing!"

If there were a particle barrier marking the transition point from castle corridor to food preparation area, the first few hairs of Coran's mustache would have just made contact with it. With his attention focused on the data pad in his hands, Coran hadn't even gotten a true visual on the room yet. When he did make a quick glance around, he didn't identify anything immediately wrong—no fires, no smoke, no run away "food goo" dispensers... He hadn't heard any strange sounds as he'd made his way down the corridor, at least none that he could remember. And while there were some unfamiliar smells lingering in the air, they weren't unpleasant smells. Indeed, they smelled quite delectable. In short, Coran had no idea what Hunk was talking about. But given the amount of panic packed into his few syllables, Coran suspected it most definitely was not "nothing." He narrowed his eyes as he made a show of taking one long stride to bring himself completely into the room. 

Hunk took a small step backward at the motion. He stood by the heating unit, back to the wall, both hands drawn close to his chest, one wrapping the other tightly in fabric. There was an unusual amount of white showing in his eyes, Coran noted as Hunk met his gaze. His wide smile looked stretched and forced. Coran wasn't sure whether they knew it or not, but not one of his paladins was a not good liar. "Just a momentary lapse in proper knife etiquette is all. I know better. I really do. It won't happen again!"

Ah. So knives were involved. The clues were beginning to come together, and Coran's suspicion that it was not "nothing" seemed to be confirmed. Coran ventured another step forward, sending Hunk one small step backward in turn. "It was—it was just a little accident. No big deal. I can handle it. No problem."

"Hunk…" Another step, another step.

Hunk could no longer look Coran in the eye, sending his gaze toward the ceiling. Coran thought he could see a light sheen of sweat on his face. "I mean, it's not like there was a lot of blood or anything." 

Taking one final step forward, Coran tucked his data pad under one arm and slowly extended his hand. "May I have a look?"

Hunk was backed into a corner now, his eyes gone impossibly wide, his strained expression threatening to break. He clenched the fabric in his grip, holding his injured hand tighter to his chest. Behind the tension though, Coran could see the tiny gears turning in his little brain cage. Slowly, hesitantly, Hunk stretched his hands out, offering himself up for inspection. He turned his head to the side, closing his eyes as a grimace began to contort his features. Coran questioned that gesture at first, but then memory caught up with him and a smile quirked under his mustache. Oh his yellow paladin and his sensitive stomach.

As gently as he could manage, Coran slowly peeled back the crimson-stained layers of the light cloth Hunk had wrapped himself in, earning him a small whine. The cut was shallow but long, slicing across the whole of Hunk's right thumb tip. A thin line of red pooled in the cut, content to stay within its confines.

"I wasn't paying attention," Hunk said quietly, his head still turned to the side, eyes still squeezed shut.. "I know I messed up. I'm so sorry, Coran, really. I promise I'll be more careful." His tone was nearly sorrowful, like he might succumb to tears at any moment

"No reason to apologize, Hunk." Coran gently turned Hunk's hand from side to side in his grip to get a better look, not getting too close or prodding too much until he had a med kit available. "A little bandage and you should be good as new. In fact, I believe we may have what we need to patch you up right here."

Hunk turned his head toward him, brows lifting over closed eyes until they touched his bandana. "I can finish dinner. Really, it's no big deal. If we have a glove or something I can wear over it, it'll be fine."

"Nonsense. I can finish for you," Coran offered. Hunk opened his eyes at that. He looked pained—physically, mentally, emotionally pained. Coran tried not to take it personally, but felt his expression twitch with agitation all the same. He cleared his throat. "You can walk me through it. Even a universally renowned chef such as myself can still learn a thing or two. In fact, I'm quite intrigued by some of your Earth techniques."

"You're sure?"

"I think I can manage to save your dish so long as you are there to assist. Let me be your hands—or your thumb, as it were. A little hard to work your utensils when your thumb looks like this." Coran lifted Hunk's hand for emphasis.

Hunk looked. His face paled. His expression soured. He made a little "ulp" sound.

"Oh dear," Coran said. "Deep breaths, paladin. Deep breaths!"


	3. Someone to do the laundry.

Over the years—as few as there were, after all he was still young, or at least young-ish—Coran had become very familiar with the myriad sounds an armor refresher could make. The clangs and whirs, clicks and thuds he heard echoing down the lower corridors of the ship from the refresher room were not unknown to him. In fact they were quite normal. It was the rounds of aggravated huffs and sighs, near growls, and chants of "stupid, stupid, stupid" he questioned. He wasn't aware the refresher had learned to speak. It must have been one of the upgrades his green paladin had been threatening.

Or his green paladin herself, it would seem. As Coran rounded the doorway into the refresher room, he spied Pidge ripping out excess wires extending from the armor refresher's control panel. She tossed them to the floor, a few of them bouncing off of her precious "lap-top", then slammed her empty hands against the unit—once, twice, three times more—which continued on with its work unabated. She leaned in closer, body tense but beginning to sag. Her hair pressed against the white metal as she rested her head against the hulking machine. At times like this, Coran was reminded of his youngest paladin's true size. He thought he could see her shaking. "Is there a problem, number five?"

She whipped her head around to him. Heavy tears clung to fierce eyes behind her frames. "I can't do it!" she exclaimed. "I can't do anything! I can't reprogram this stupid machine! I can't find my family! I'm useless!"

For a moment, Coran was taken aback, both by the sentiment and the intensity. His eyebrows brushed his hairline, his mouth shrunk to near nothingness. It was a bit of a jump in logic, but Coran thought he could see the trajectory of her line of thinking—unfounded as it was—and he intended to alter that trajectory. His expression softened. "Useless indeed," he agreed blandly, words slow and deliberate. Pidge's mouth parted in shock. The tears brimming her eyes threatened to tumble down. "So useless that you managed to commandeer the technological systems of a culture you never knew existed, reprogramming a device in a matter of tics to work for you rather than against you, thereby avoiding certain doom."

Pidge's brows knit in confusion. "Well, yeah, but Rover was—"

"So useless," Coran continued, dialing up his intensity, "that you nearly single-handedly defeated a Galra commander and his subordinates, kept the castle and the lions from being turned over to Zarkon, and kept two of your teammates from becoming his slaves!"

"Coran—"

"So useless—" He was nearly screaming at this point "—that you built a communications rig from cast off scrap in order to amplify your lion's signal which not only allowed us to find you but in the process saved both Allura and myself from an unknown fate caught in a time loop and in the end saved your entire team!"

"I get it!" Pidge shouted. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, visibly relaxing herself as she did so. "I get it, Coran. I get it… But sometimes…" She eyed her laptop uncertainly. "Sometimes I get so frustrated. Every time I get close to the Galra systems, I download as many prisoner files as I can, but it's never enough. Deciphering code, reprogramming systems, finding information—that's what I'm good at. That's what should be helping me find dad and Matt. But no matter how hard I try, it's never enough. And if I can't even do something simple like this, what chance do I really have of finding them?" She picked up the device, brushing off a lose wire. "There are times it feels like I'm no closer to finding them now than I was back on Earth. It's been over a year since they disappeared. That's a long time to not know. To keep looking… without finding anything." The tears welling on Pidge's lashes rolled down her cheeks, one after the other. She wiped at them with a sleeve, her other hand clutching his laptop tightly to her chest. When she spoke again, it was quieter but higher pitched, strained. "Maybe I haven't found them yet because they're not there anymore to be found. What if I'm just chasing after ghosts at this point? What if I never find them…"

"Don't give up hope," Coran said. "You paladins come from a surprisingly adaptable species from what I've seen. And I have no doubt that your father and brother are just as clever and just as determined to survive as you." He rested a hand lightly on her shoulder, giving her as warm and reassuring a smile as he could muster when she looked up at him. "The day you stop looking is the day you'll have truly lost them. Don't let one small failure cause you to give up on your goals. One battle doesn't determine a war. Besides, these refresher units are notoriously difficult to work with. It took me over five hundred years to figure out where to put the soap."

Pidge sniffled around a subtle curling of her lips, wiped at her eyes, and wordlessly pressed herself against him.


	4. Someone to hold you when you cry.

Staying out of Zarkon's reach was proving to be exhausting. Wormhole after wormhole after wormhole, battle after battle, being on constant alert—it was beginning to wear on all of them. With no relief in sight until they could figure out how exactly they were being tracked, Coran and Shiro had turned their thoughts to ways they might lessen the impact of their current situation. Was there any possible way they could stay one step ahead? Any way they could plan their next move, not knowing when they'd need to make it?

Shiro had been the one to suggest the list. "If we have a list of places already in mind—places that are remote, uninhabited, scattered across the universe—then when Zarkon does attack, we can already have a destination selected. If he catches up to us there, then it's on to the next. It'll at least save us the time of figuring out where we're wormholing to. We can answer distress signals along the way, but at the first sign of Zarkon, we're on to our next destination. We can't help anyone if he takes us out now."

It wasn't a perfect plan, but it was the only one they'd come up with so far. Coran was willing to give it a shot. When none of the other paladins objected, all eyes turned to Allura for final approval. "I can begin identifying possible destinations for us," she said by way of agreement. "I'm the one responsible for generating the wormholes, I should know where they're leading us."

Shiro stepped toward her. "Let me help you, princess. With two of us working on it, we should be able to identify—" 

Allura raised her hand, cutting him off mid-sentence and casting him a bittersweet smile. "While I appreciate your offer, perhaps it would be best if there was at least one activity from which _you_ could 'step away.'"

Coran watched as his other paladins traded questioning, uneasy glances behind Shiro's back. For a long moment, hesitation contorted Shiro's brow and clenched his teeth. Finally, his expression softened by degrees once more. "Okay," he relented, no small amount of resignation coloring his tone. "Let us know if you need anything."

Thus, whenever they found themselves not in the thrall of battle, while the paladins sought out their "thing," Allura busied herself with maps. Alone but for her mice. Seeking out their next port of refuge. The weight of their survival hanging heavy on her shoulders. Coran made sure to check in from time to time, bring snacks, suggestions, or sometimes simply a distraction—just in case. He was especially mindful that his dear princess take adequate time to see to her own needs. They all needed their rest when they could find it.

It was nearing the beginning of the castle's unofficial sleep cycle when Coran decided it was time to start ushering Allura off to bed—if he didn't start now, his blue paladin would have rolled out of bed the next morning by the time Coran finally convinced her to rest. The bridge was quiet, illuminated by both the passing stars shining in on the screens and the unmoving simulated celestial bodies suspended in the air. Allura sat at the foot of her controls, her knees drawn to her chest with her chin resting on them lightly, her hair nearly glowing in the cool light. When last he'd left her, Allura had been flowing through their charts, swiping past inhabited worlds, pausing to note possible destinations, then pulling and stretching the universe past her fingertips as she continued searching. Now, she was still. 

At first Coran thought his work may have already been done for him: perhaps Allura had already fallen asleep or was beginning to nod off, and he could get her to bed with little prodding. If he was particularly stealthy, he might even be able to carry her to bed as he had when she was younger. He hadn't been able to do that since she'd hit that rebellious stage, and not that he would ever admit it out loud, but he did secretly miss those little moment between them.

Coran drew closer on soft, silent steps only to find her still awake, staring fixedly at a point on the map with tired eyes, her mice at her feet. She cast him a quick glance before returning to her spot. Coran followed her gaze. 

It took a moment for the stars and planets to align in his mind, to realize that what Allura was staring at couldn't actually be seen. That was when it felt like the gravity generator had suddenly malfunctioned, leaving him with no frim surface supporting his weight. It was no longer there. By their memories, it had only been a handful of movements since the small solar system that had once inhabited that little corner of the universe had been teeming with life, but in the true order of time, it had been thousands of years. What was once the bright center of their lives was now an achingly dim emptiness.

"Everyone we knew," Allura began, breaking the careful silence with quiet, fragile words, "our friends, our loved ones—they're gone. All of Altea is simply… gone." The blankness on the map seemed to grow, devouring the space around it as Allura gave words to their reality. Coran rested a hand on the controls for balance. "As much as I want to grieve," she continued after a moment's silence, "I cannot bring myself to do it. No matter how I try, the tears simply won't come. There are times I feel more upset by my lack of grief than by the death of our people." Allura turned her head, the movement breaking Coran from his reverie and solidifying the ground beneath him once more. She looked to him, face weary and worried. "Is there something wrong with me?"

"No, princess," Coran assured her solemnly. He steeled his features, hoping she could not see how his heart broke for the two of them.

Allura studied his expression for a moment before averting her eyes to the floor. "I understand that I've been preoccupied with the paladins and Zarkon, but I still feel I've let Altea down somehow. I feel as though I've not done enough to mourn our loss—as though I've not paid my respects properly."

"There's no correct way to grieve," Coran said, for her as much as for himself. He took a step forward to plant a firm hand on her thin shoulder. "Nor any timeline for when to do it."

Allura attempted a wan smile, but the moment it faltered, she turned her face to bury it against her drawn knees. Her shoulders trembled under his grip. Maybe, Coran thought—no, hoped—she was finally able to cry, to do what she felt she must. "I do miss them," she said, voice muffled but dry.

"I know you do." Coran knelt beside her, turning his hand from her shoulder to her back, rubbing small circles and feeling her shake beneath him. She sagged under his touch but continued to tremble. He took the moment as an opportunity to close out the maps for the night. They'd both seen enough of them for the evening. 

"Would you sit with me?" Allura asked hesitantly, voice small and shaking, face hidden in her knees. "For a little while?"

Though he knew Allura couldn't see it, Coran still smiled down at her. "Of course."

Not two tics after he had seated himself beside her, Coran could feel Allura's full weight begin to press against him. There was a welcome sense of nostalgia in the contact. And maybe for a moment, Altea existed once more.

Perhaps he would carry her to bed tonight after all.


	5. Someone to take care of you when you're sick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: vomiting.

"Shiro, is Keith around? I've been looking for him." Until this morning, Coran had always considered his red paladin the most predictable. If Keith was not with his lion, he could be found in one of four other locations: the bridge, the training deck, his quarters, or somewhere in the vicinity of his black paladin. Shortly after the morning meal, Coran had sought him out. Not having found Keith on the bridge, and discovering the training deck and his red paladin's quarters were similarly vacant, Coran was admittedly surprised to not find Keith following along after Shiro like his little red shadow. 

"I haven't seen him since breakfast," Shiro said with the usual flicker of worry he held when discussing his red paladin. His grip on the datapad he'd retrieved from the records room tightened. "Do you need me to help find him?"

"No, no." Coran waved him off before tugging on his mustache in thought. Very curious. On the one hand, this all but confirmed Coran's suspicions about what may have happened to Keith, but on the other hand, it also introduced a new unknown to the equation. If Coran was correct, why hadn't his red paladin enlist Shiro's aid in the matter? Was Keith embarrassed? Had he not had the opportunity to seek him out? Was he dead? "No, I'm sure he'll survive," Coran said off-handedly.

This of course earned him a blank stare from Shiro. "… Coran?"

"It's nothing. Nothing to worry about," Coran called as he again waved Shiro off and began to make his way down the corridor from whence he'd come. "I'll find him!" He could feel Shiro's worried stare follow after him until he was well out of sight. 

Given Coran's suspicions, there were now 247 locations wherein to find his red paladin, although something told him he would not need to look far. Keith was a creature of habit—predictable. The various paths from the dining hall to the bridge to the training room to the paladin's quarters to Shiro's current position in the records room passed by only 37 of those locations—37 bathrooms wherein Coran might find his hiding paladin.

Coran found Keith—or rather _heard_ Keith—in bathroom number 176 on his and Lance's regular cleaning rotation, midway between the dining hall and the training room. If Keith was indeed attempting to hide, he was doing a rather poor job of it. Coran could hear him half way down the corridor, and the sound was not pleasant. Somewhere between a gag and a sob, a retch and cough fell the pained sounds coming from the other side of the door panel. Coran's suspicions were well and truly confirmed, and in this instance, he hated being right. Coran steadied his own stomach, then knocked lightly. "Are you in need of assistance, paladin?"

A long series of rough, wet, dragging breaths echoed down the corridor before Keith choked out, "No." None of his paladins were good liars. "I can—" The words were cut off by another round of violent heaves, punctuated by pained moans.

Coran waited for the noise to taper off to deep breaths once more, giving Keith the opportunity to continue his thought, but it was apparently lost in the stifled coughs and sniffles that followed. "May I come in?" Coran asked.

There were a few tics of quiet, then: "S' open."

The moment the door panel wooshed open, Coran felt a wave of sick wash over him. Not sick to his stomach, mind—although the smell was rather off-putting—but sick in his heart. Keith had backed himself into the rear of the small room, wedging himself between the waste unit and the wall. His skin was pale to the point he nearly blended in with the castle walls, but a bright flush the color of his lion clung to the tops of his cheeks. Sweat trickled down his face, bringing his hair together in sticky clumps across his brow, soaking his clothing until it clung to his skin. He trembled. Even as he tried to lean against the wall, his body going limp, he still shook—his head, his legs, his arms, his lips. The whole of him quivered. His expression was pained, his eyes glassy, nearly unseeing. The fire Coran had grown accustomed to seeing burning in Keith's eyes had been doused with exhaustion bordering on resignation. He would soon be forced to admit defeat.

In short, his poor red paladin looked like a newborn yupper: wet, shaking, and helpless. And Coran had to resist the urge to treat him as such. He wanted to wrap the poor boy in a blanket and spend the rest of the day seeing to his every need as though Keith's very survival depended solely on Coran. While some of his other paladins might not have minded such a gesture (Lance would have enjoyed it whether he was sick or not), something told Coran that it would not be a particularly welcome move in Keith's purview. 

Coran closed the door behind him, returning Keith just a bit of his well-guarded privacy. "The Galra digestive system cannot properly process winath nectar," he explained, keeping his tone light and conversational. He took a step forward to kneel near Keith's feet. "When Hunk mentioned using it in his—what were they called—pan-cakes? I wondered if you would have any trouble."

"This is…" Keith had to swallow before continuing. "…because I'm Galra?"

"Yes. Well, that and because your Kaltenecker has not born any offspring. Or so I'm told." Coran began digging in his pocket. "You know, Alfor once served a dessert at a formal dinner that contained winath nectar. The entire Galra delegation was—" Keith's stomach made an uncertain noise, sending his hand to his mouth in immediate, trembling response. Coran stilled himself, waiting for the aftermath. When nothing came of it, he continued, "Maybe the less said about that incident, the better. But it is thanks to that culinary catastrophe that we developed this." From his pocket, he retrieved a small crystalline vial, a thin, orange-colored liquid swirling inside. He held it up for display before extending it toward Keith. "Just a few drops and you should be back to besting the Gladiator in no time." 

Keith's expression brightened by degrees. He pulled his hand from his mouth to reach for the offered relief, arms and fingers shaking. Keith narrowed his brows in concentration but still overshot his trajectory, causing his bare fingers to drag against Coran's gloved hand as he clumsily clasped the vial for himself. Watching Keith draw the vial into his lap and begin working to open it, Coran felt a new wave of worry. Trembling aside, Keith's hands didn't seem to be responding properly. No matter how Keith tried, no matter how he furrowed his brows or grit his teeth, no matter how he whimpered, he simply couldn't get his fingers to do what he needed them to do. He couldn't pull the stopper from the vial. 

"May I?" Coran offered, reaching forward. Keith made no response either way, but didn't protest as Coran stilled his hands and removed the stopper for him. "There we are. Now remember, just a few drops…"

Fumbling with the vial gripped in both hands, Keith brought it to his lips. He gently tipped it back—just as his stomach heaved. Keith lurched forward, both hands—vial and all—covering his mouth, eyes pressed shut with such force tears threatened in the corners. He willed himself to breathe through his nose, his breaths coming in short, panicked bursts around the strangled, gagging noises threatening to escape him. With no support to hold him, he shook and swayed, threatening to fall forward. Coran put out a hand to help hold him, but Keith flinched away from the contact. He fought against the rising sickness—fought it alone even though he needn't.

Coran waited. Keith's breaths slowed and evened, and finally he swallowed. Coran released the breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding. Eyes still squeezed shut, Keith leaned against the wall once more, allowing himself to go limp against it, his hands dropping carefully to his lap, his head lulling to one side. He took deep, gulping breaths through his mouth and let them out unsteadily. 

"Is there anything else I can do for you?" Coran asked, voice quiet and low. "Fetch you something to drink? Perhaps a towel? I could help you to your room."

Keith regarded him with wet, tired, red-rimmed eyes. Twice he moved his trembling lips as thought to speak, but bit down on them before any words could form. When his voice finally came, it was thin and thready, threatening to break. "Don't tell the others."

Coran's eyebrows lifted with momentary surprise. It wasn't an answer he was expecting. In fact, it sounded like more of a question than an answer. Like Keith was pleading with him. As thought he was afraid Coran might say no. A fresh wave of heart-sick passed over him. His red paladin was predictable. Predictable in his need for privacy, his need for independence, his need for self-reliance... If Keith was not yet ready to share this moment of vulnerability with Shiro—Shiro, whom he would follow like a shadow to the ends of the universe—then it was far too personal to share with the rest of their little family. Coran touched lightly on Keith's trembling hands and assured him, "You have my word."


	6. Someone to help raise the kids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: panic attack.

Finding Shiro pacing the corridors in the middle of the castle's night cycle was by no means a new occurrence for Coran. In fact, it had become quite routine. The first few times Coran had run across his black paladin during his nightly rounds, Shiro had offered half-hearted excuses: he'd had a leg cramp, he'd gotten lost on the way to the bathroom, he'd wanted something to drink... Eventually, the excuses grew fewer and farther between until they finally disappeared altogether. Anymore, Shiro and Coran quietly exchanged pleasantries, made small talk about the day's activities, then continued on with their individual rounds. They didn't talk about it—didn't talk about the reasons behind Shiro's sleepless nights. Coran had his theories, of course. And as more and more pieces of Shiro's past began to surface and make themselves known, Coran found far too many of those theories being confirmed. 

During the day cycle, Coran would occasionally remind Shiro in a roundabout way that he was available to him if ever Shiro needed his assistance. Shiro would thank him for the offer, force his expression into something deceptively reassuring as he promised Coran he'd let him know if he needed anything, and then greet Coran with an embarrassed little smile when he discovered Shiro wandering the halls that night. They didn't talk about it. This was their routine. In fact, it had come to the point Coran found an odd sort of comfort in the steady, regular cadence of Shiro's steps echoing through the otherwise quiet of the castle corridors.

Which was probably why Coran felt such an unease as his rounds drew him nearer the paladin's quarters. Tonight, Shiro's steps sounded quicker, more forceful, more erratic. Coran made sure his own footfalls were a bit louder, made sure his shoes were a hair squeakier—made sure to announce his presence for fear of catching his black paladin unawares. Still, Coran was nearly within striking distance before Shiro noticed he was there. 

Shiro froze in his tracks, turning abruptly toward him. His eyes were blown wide, dark-ringed, near wild in appearance, and they stared past Coran in a rather worrying manner. After a tense moment, Coran's heart hammering in his chest, recognition shown in Shiro's expression. 

"They could have killed themselves today." His voice was high and strained, teetering on the razor-thin edge of frantic. He motioned down the hall toward the paladin's quarters, his arm flailing about. "Do you think they know how reckless they were being? One slip up—one! That's all it takes!" 

Earlier that evening, his paladins had rescued a vessel caught in the pull of a chronal anomaly. As the largest of their lions, the Black Lion was most affected by the anomaly's draw, leaving Shiro to play only a supporting role in their attempts. The plan his younger paladins had put together held zero margin for error, and when things didn't go as designed—time distortions were notorious for making situations unpredictable—it was only thanks to a series of fortunate failures, blind impulses, and pure luck that they managed to not only rescue the vessel but also live to fight another day. It was a near thing, but they had survived. At the time, that had felt like victory. In the aftermath, however…

"They were _this_ close. They could have—do you think they know?!" Shiro motioned wildly. His voice was beginning to echo down the halls. It was the most Coran had heard him speak at this hour since he'd given up on his excuses. It was the most gesticulation he'd seen out of his black paladin in the entire time he'd known him. Coran wasn't accustomed to seeing Shiro like this, and if he was being honest with himself, it scared him. His breath began to catch on unease.

"Would you like me to talk with them?" Coran asked, fighting to keep his tone even and low, neutral and hushed. He held his open palms before him, both a defensive and a defusing gesture.

"Yes!" Shiro all but shouted, thrusting his hands into the air, before letting them fall loosely to his sides. He added more quietly, "Please… I can't—" Shiro's lips were beginning to tremble, his composure threatening to crumble. "I can't lose another crew, Coran. I can't! They could have—"

"I'll talk to them," Coran interrupted, words coming quicker and with more force than intended. "Tomorrow," he added more gently. "For now…" He took a few short steps backward, his hands still visible, and eased himself down the wall to sit on the floor. "I wonder if you would like to sit with me a moment?"

"I can't lose another crew," Shiro echoed, his voice turning to a whisper. The trembling worked its way into his arms, leaving them shaking at his sides. "I can't." Coran extended a hand to him, forcing himself to steel his own tremble. Shiro's gaze showed no indication that he'd seen the movement, his eyes again looked past Coran toward some unknown, but some part of him automatically stepped forward to accept the offer. His hand fumbled blindly to grasp Coran's own. "They could have…"

"But they didn't," Coran said, stating it as fact more than counterpoint. With his grip loose, his touch gentle, he guided Shiro to sit beside him, positioning him just so: back against the wall, knees drawn close.

"I can't lose them."

"It's all right." Coran moved his hand to Shiro's back, slowly, gently, methodically, always maintaining physical contact to let Shiro know where he was. Then he pressed, moving by degrees, maneuvering Shiro's head between his knees.

Shiro offered no resistance, but as he lowered himself, his breath sped up. He was panting. "I can't…" Shiro drew his hands through his hair, gripping at the closely shorn locks to keep his fingers from shaking. His entire body trembled, the pressure building. "I can't…" His voice tapered off to syllabic gasps amidst his loud, heavy breaths, repeating over and over. "I can’t, I can't…" Coran told him—nearly pleaded with him—to breathe. Until finally, he cried, "I can't!" 

The moment Coran heard the first sob cut its way through his black paladin's carefully constructed façade, Shiro all but melted under him. His body sagged in instant release, still and limp but for the shudder of a sob racking his body. "I can't," Shiro whimpered, voice thin and pleading. "I can't…" Coran shushed him, beginning to move his hand up and down Shiro's spine, massaging each little knot of anxiety along the way. "I can't…"

As the night cycle stretched on before them, Shiro quieted, the still and silence of the castle corridors returning. His chanting ceased. His sobbing settled. With his head still cradled in his hands, fingers laced through his hair no longer shaking, his breathing grew steadier, shallower. Sleep, Coran told himself. He continued to smooth his hand along Shiro's back, his ministrations moving in half-time to the steady, regular rhythm of Shiro's nightly pacings. Finally, his black paladin could rest, Coran thought. And he would allow him to do so for as long as possible.

Coran reclined his head against the wall behind him, finally allowing his own body to sag. He worked to steady his own breath in time with his movements, careful not to let sleep take him as well, no matter his exhaustion. His mind wandered. Of all the problems his paladins faced, perhaps this was the hardest to conquer. Shiro had almost pulled him into his panic tonight—a near miss. A small victory. But what would happen the next time… there had to be some solution. However temporary. But when faced with such a task, what could Coran do?

"You'll talk to them?" 

Coran stilled his hand in surprise, the soft, trembling voice breaking the careful silence surrounding them. He kept his own voice low as he answered, "I will."

"Thank you," Shiro said, the words shuddering. He sniffled around the edges of a deep, steadying breath. Keeping his face carefully hidden, he carefully wiped his hands across his eyes, smoothed his cheeks. "For everything," he added more evenly.

"You are most welcome, paladin." Coran gave Shiro's back a final gentle pat before removing his touch, releasing Shiro from his hold. After a moment he added, "I'm always here when you need me. If you ever decide you want to talk…"

Head still held between his legs, Shiro glanced up at him, one red-rimmed, swollen eye visible past his white tuft of hair, his expression forced into something deceptively reassuring. They wouldn't talk about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find this fic [on Tumblr](http://bajillionkittens.tumblr.com/post/163739936447/gen-coran-centric-lance-hunk-pidge-allura) for easy reblogging! And feel free to [drop me a line](http://bajillionkittens.tumblr.com/ask).


	7. Someone to love.

"I'm not ill," Coran said, a mix of emotions coloring his words. He pulled his blankets to his chin and studied his paladins and Allura as they all gathered at his bedside, a food tray in tow. 

"Well that's good," Lance chimed. He, Pidge, and Hunk (the bearer of the food tray) pressed in closest, looking like they would burst from sheer excitement. Allura seated herself at the foot of the bed, her hands folded in her lap, the picture of poise and composure. Keith and Shiro hung back from the other paladins—Keith hovering closest, looking like he wanted to join in but didn't know quite what to do, while Shiro stood to one side, apart from the rest of the group with a clean view of the doorway.

Coran could count on one hand the number of times someone had knocked on his door in the past ten thousand years. He wasn't even sure the paladins knew where his personal quarters were located. In all honesty, he may have purposefully overlooked providing that bit of information to them. That meant Allura must have led the way. Now his single, solitary private refuge in the entire universe had been discovered. But he was willing to suffer the sacrifice gladly if there was a proper reason behind it. 

What that reason could be, Coran could not fathom. "Nor am I injured…"

"Also a positive," Pidge noted.

When Coran had bid his early morning callers enter, he'd feared some emergency had arisen—after all, those were quite routine these days—so he was surprised when all six of his young charges had filed in the door to crowd around his bed chamber. It seemed there had been some sort of miscommunication. There was really no need for this. They needn't barge in. He could have easily made his way to the dining hall as usual. He was fine. Really. Sure his knees were a bit achy, but that was simply—

Coran narrowed his brows. "Nor am I so old that I cannot manage for myself."

"We know that," Keith said.

"Then I am unsure of the reasoning behind…" Blankets still held to his chin, Coran gestured vaguely at the six of them, then down at the food tray. "… _this_."

Hunk beamed as his no doubt homemade dish was finally acknowledged. His chest puffed and his posture straightened even as he bent to deposit the tray across Coran's lap. "You're always the one taking care of us, right? We just thought we'd return the favor for once. So… we made you breakfast. Allura says it's your favorite." His light dimmed. "Well, it should be similar to your favorite. I couldn't find the exact ingredients..." Hunk muttered under his breath, casting a final unsure glance at the tray.

"And we took care of all the cleaning duties for today," Lance added quickly, looking particularly proud of himself as he reached back to sling an arm across Keith's shoulders and pull him closer to the group. "I showed Mullet here the ropes. It's kinda my thing." Keith started at the initial touch but settled into it easily enough. Coran though he spied a small, shy smile curving his features as he ducked his head. 

"I did the laundry," Pidge said, sounding very much like she was bragging. She adjusted her glasses, noting, "Which should be much easier now with the modifications I've made to the refresher unit."

Allura regarded each of the paladins with pride as they noted their accomplishments. She stretched a hand across the bed to place it lightly over Coran's blanketed knee—a familiar, familial gesture—as she turned her attention exclusively to him. "All of your regular duties have been completed for you. Today is yours to do with as you please."

"You deserve the rest, Coran," Shiro added from his little corner of the room.

"As well as our gratitude," Allura continued. "For all that you do for each of us."

Again, Coran studied them. Their expressions eager to please, wanting to make him happy, wanting to make him proud, warm and affectionate. Their offering a heaping, steaming bowl of oozing green gelatinous proteins mixed with dried pink and orange fruits with hard violet grain clusters for texture (just like mum used to make!), and alongside his napkin and spork, a small bouquet of delicately folded paper juniberry flowers. Those were most definitely Allura's doing. Although the varying degrees of handiwork seemed to indicate she'd had help. Slowly, Coran lowered his blankets, leaving them puddled in his lap. "Oh. Well," he'd intended to say something more useful, but nothing would come to him except, "Thank you?"

"So," Lance drawled, "got any big plans for your special day?"

Well, there were repairs to be made to the hangar air filtration system. And he could stand to catch up on the outer rim map upgrades. Not to mention the storage rooms could stand reinventorying. Then there was the issue of the flickering screens near the fifth level elevator. Oh, and he couldn't forget about cleaning out that malfunctioning waste unit of level eight. But… "You know," Coran said, picking up his spoon and scooping through his breakfast," I thought I might spend it with all of you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find this fic [on Tumblr](http://bajillionkittens.tumblr.com/post/163812484027/gen-coran-centric-lance-hunk-pidge-allura) for easy reblogging! There are also a few [end notes](http://bajillionkittens.tumblr.com/post/163813079282/gen-coran-centric-read-it-on-ao3-complete) posted over there. And feel free to [drop me a line](http://bajillionkittens.tumblr.com/ask).


End file.
